Dambuster
by saoulbete
Summary: This was the hundred-year flood coming in to break down all the walls between them.


A/N so, this is another thing I came across while digging through an old hard drive. The original(s) (this sorta combines two fics) were both Jeeves and Wooster fics that I had written under two different pennames, too many years ago, and I'm kinda really glad I rediscovered them, and Wodehouse in general, because damn, there is something about the Jeeves/Wooster dynamic that fits with the Rizzles dynamic really really well. It's this idea of them being so in love with each other but never showing actually expressing that exact emotion as such, because they're so much afraid of what the idea of love is, and how much they're expected to be straight. Do enjoy, b/c y'all are awesome, and I just want to say thank you so much for how good y'all are. Seriously, my email pops on my phone and there's so many alerts and favourites and reviews and I'm just like "They like me! They really like me!"

* * *

It was the elephant in the room, and both of them know it. It's always there, hiding in dark corners, waiting for either of them – for both – to let their guard down. They said nothing of it, although they could tell from shared glances that each knew that the other knew. They were far too proud, too proper, too _straight_ to let their emotions show, and to let the carefully constructed walls they built come crumbling down. Each knew that all it would take was for one of them to make one some small mistake and both of them would go tumbling down a dark path that they were, quite frankly, both afraid of.

They hid it well, and pretended as though both of them were oblivious. That they didn't see the longing glances shot to one another across crime scenes, that the little lingering touches as they fixed each other's fashion, when they handed the sugar to one another preparing their morning coffees did not happen. That they didn't notice when they woke up curled around one another when one or the other stayed the night, wrote it off as just being BFF's forever. They ignored the way that they didn't need to speak, as they could communicate without words. Over the years, they had learned to read each other's little quirks, developed the ability to read a raise of an eyebrow or a slump of the shoulders. They pretended as though it was completely natural to, after all they had been through together, be the first one the other turned to for any of the problems that ailed them. After all, wasn't that what a best friend was for?

They restrained themsleves, however, when that closeness became threatening. When it dared to breach a carefully constructed boundary that seemed to change with every passing year. Originally, when they first met, they'd both built the walls, knowing well enough that there was no way that this could end well. And over the years, those hastily erected, those jerry-rigged walls had given way to something decidedly more permanent, constructed together with an unspoken agreement. They did not talk about _this._ They never talked about _this_ knowing that if they did that it would make it entirely all too real.

They did not talk about _this _ even though it invaded their every thought, their every move, their every action. They did not talk about _this_ even though it snuck into every one of their thoughts. They did not talk about _this_ because to talk about it would make it a reality, something they had to acknowledge and something that they could not claim that they had plausible denailbility on. It was all too easy to pretend it doesn't exist. Easy to pretend that that mutual attraction wasn't there. Easier to pretend that to act on it would bring nothing but pain.

They knew that to talk of it would ruin them, to bring it to action, to admit what was impossible to deny – it would ruin them. They fought too easily, bickered too frequently, and all it would take was one argument over who paid for whom at dinner for things to collapse between them. They had their reputations to maintain – it was hard enough for her when the comments about her sexuality were intended just to sting and not to reflect the truth. It was easier to play to the facade and play straight. It was easier for them to find their respective men, and fall in love, and share consoling shoulders when love decided it did not want to fall for them. They needed each other far more than they needed the desire that bridged between them, and they would not compromise that.

And after a while, they had gotten so used to the walls that they had constructed, so used to playing to the facade that even they had forgotten about it. So good had they gotten at this game of play pretend that it ceased to be a game, and became a reality. The carefully constructed walls were fortified, strengthened, and for a moment, they were on even footing, where it ceased to be an issue.

But there is only so long that the elephant in the room can stand still and hide in a corner before it has to shift and make its presence known. There is only so long that the feelings that they had tamped down could be submerged before the current had to flow, leaving a gaping sinkhole beneath their feet. They had been getting on so well, pretending that _this_ didn't exist that even they had thought the feelings had ceased to exist. They had been doing so well that they were able to forget about the razor's edge that they had walked.

And then, suddenly, the elephant shifted, the river roared, and all of the carefully constructed walls between them were swept away in a sudden rush.

They hadn't planned on it happening. No one ever planned on these sorts of things, after all. This was not like a dinner reservation, this was not a hair appointment, or what to do after work. They hadn't planned on their murderer being still around the crime scene, not able to go much further in the overwhelming August heat, watching as they worked. Hadn't planned on their murderer getting discovered. Hadn't planned on bullets flying everywhere, and tense moments of limbs akimbo as dozens of echoing cracks filled the air. She hadn't planned on returning home with Maura to find a small streak of red gently spreading against a pale grey dress, and it was in that moment that they found that they were lost. Every one of their defences came crashing down as she gently traced the edges of the wound.

It wasn't anything more than a deep scratch, but it was a symbol of what could have been. If it was a fraction of an inch to the side, then _this_ wouldn't be happening, and they would continue carrying on like they had. A fraction of an inch the other way and they would have been separated forever. And the very thought of losing her other have has her here, in the dim half light of the setting sun filtered through the approaching clouds, gently yet firmly pressing her lips against her other's. She'd rather deal with the risks that come inherently with this sort of thing than she would miss this entire chance. There's a delayed response while a calculating mind weighs the risks and rewards; as every possibility is considered and explored, before the kiss is tentatively returned.

It's slow and awkward at first, neither of them quite sure if this is a good idea. Both of them know that this is a turning point. That there is no going back-if they were to stop right now, they could turn around and go back to pretending, but that's _only_ if they stop right now, don't let it go any further. But it's that fear, that knowledge that now they will never be the same that makes this all the more exciting. Both of them are attempting to seem as though this is natural, that they are more skilled in these matters than they are. Putting on a show if only to boost their own – and each others – confidence. She reaches up, tangling one hand into blonde hair, grinning as she realizes just how disheveled she has her other half.

The grin only lasts for a second before lips are on hers again, and she slowly walks them back through the hall and into the bedroom. She takes her time slowly unbuttoning the front of the dress, wondering in what circle of hell the Nurse Ratched-esque attire her better half was wearing came from. She pauses to kiss her way along the the gouge that mars the pale flesh on one side. It's raised, and raw, and red and ugly and she thinks she loves it because it is this imperfection in otherwise perfect flesh that convinced her that there is no reason to wait any longer.

Neither of them say anything, and the only sounds around them are the soft pitter-pat of rain against the window, and the quiet application of lips to flesh, the odd gasp and groan as they each discover sensitive parts of the others body. Somewhere in the distance thunder pealed, a low rumble of quickly growing intensity.

She's rather enjoying the sounds she can draw forth, especially the sharp gasp of pleasure when she nibbles at a place she vaguely recalls as the suprasternal notch, amazed at the way that she's retained the scientific name of the spot, and knows that she'll never forget it, just because of the reaction it draws forth. There's a gentle nudge on her shoulder, encouraging her to roll over, and she does. It's been a long time – too long – since she's done this, feeling someone else balance themselves between her thighs. She's used to taking the lead, setting the pace, but this time, she's willing to cede. She likes this, laying here with surprisingly strong arms braced on either side of her. It's wonderfully, really, with lips and teeth exploring her.

She strips her – and she falters in her train of thought, tries to think of a word to describe the indescribeable woman on top of her. _Lover_ conveyed something more than what they were. It conveyed soppy terms of endearment and nights cuddled on the couch. It conveyed a sense of intimacy that they were unsure of wading into, another line they dared not cross. This was about fulfilling a physical need, this was not about love. This was about reassuring each other that they were _alive_ after spending the day in the sweltering sun, coming so close to the end. This was about caving in to years of building want, building _need._

This was not a time to pause and reflect upon what they were. This was not a time to question the emotions behind everything, but rather a time to revel in the _nowness_ of it. To revel in the sweaty ecstasy of physical intimacy when they'd both gone so long without. She wriggles free of her pants and underwear, and for a moment, wonders at what a silly sight she must be, in her tank top, socks still on, arching up into a touch as one hand gently cups her breast. She strips her other-as _other_ is the only thing she can think of to describe the woman as she thinks it covers everything. The ying to her yang, the fluff to her peanut butter, the sugar to her coffee – the other half of the equation that completed her. They existed solely in terms of ieach other – it was impossible to seperate them. This was merely a spilling over of the closeness in a way that had been threatening for what seemed like forever.

It doesn't stop her from gasping, the sound getting swallowed by a growl of thunder, at the sight of her Maura laying beneath her in nothing more than a bra and a necklace, and she thinks it's the most erotic thing she's ever seen, and she takes a steadying breath to prevent her from coming right then and there. The moment passes, and she skims the little bit of exposed flesh near the hem of the bra, before slowly undoing the front clasp, and sliding it off well-sculpted shoulders, watching the way that sinewy muscles beneath twist and flex to aid her. Fingers tangle in her hair and she allows heself to be pulled down into another bruising kiss, tongues skating over one another, teeth nibbling at lips. The only thing she's aware of in this moment is this indescribable need, and with something approaching a growl she pulls away to fully bare herself.

Outside the wind is howling, and the rain is crashing against the windows, and they're naked now, and that is the only thing she can think about. Right now, what she needs is are those little gasps and grunts as she grinds down, feeling an answering wetness against her own. Right now what she needs is to run her hands down quivering flanks, bury her teeth into the side of a pale, perfect neck. She doesn't bother to hold herself up, instead she lays there pressed fully agains the warmth beneath her, hips moving of her own accord, before she slides one questioning hand down, tangling between them. It's a slow buildup of passions, the floodwaters slowly trickling down the mountain, and heading for the dam. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows that it is a perfect metaphor, and she's proud of herself for coming up with it. This is a destructive force that will forever break down the walls between them, leave them on unsteady footing, but it's something that needs to happen, that cannot be avoided any longer, a force of nature.

This was the hundred-years flood, this was years in the making and they'd waited years for it. Everything that they'd wanted from when they first met. This was what they had lived for, everything that had given their lives meaning, condensed into a gentle rocking of hips, and the digging of nails into a sweat-slicked back. This was their everything – their very souls poured into the gentle scrape of teeth across flesh. The storm rages on outside as they roll, neither of them taking control, but rather both of them, doing this, together. There's two hands tangled between them, each of them bringing pleasure to each other. She's not sure who succumbs first, when she finds herself beneath her other, and even though it's the middle of the night, she can suddenly see clear as day, or perhaps it's a flash of lightning, and there's a brilliant blonde head, thrown back in utter ecstasy, the sinews in her neck straining, and she takes back what she thought earlier. _This_ was the most erotic thing she had ever seen, and if she hadn't already had an orgasm thundering out of her, she was sure this sight would do it.

Neither of them moves, afraid of what would happen when they do. They lay there, clutching each other, breath slowly returning to them. Instead, they cling to each other, as though they were swept away with the storm outside, clinging to a buoy for dear life. And perhaps the have been – they've been swept away, crossed lines that they had dared not cross and turned their lives upside down. But there will be time to talk of it in the morning. There was time yet for a hundred decisions and revisions that a minute could reverse. Time to redefine the boundaries, remake the rules, and rebuild the walls and fortifications to stop this from getting out of control. For now, she's content to lay there, sticky and sweaty and exhausted, listening to the soft pitter pat of a retreating storm, of the gentle breathing between them, ignoring the fact that this changes everything.


End file.
